The Call Of The Canyon by Zane Grey (top 20 books to read .txt) 📖

Drew The Blinds Down And Read Her Magazines. Then Tiring Of That,  She Went

Back To The Observation Car. Carley Was Accustomed To Attracting Attention,

And Did Not Resent It,  Unless She Was Annoyed. The Train Evidently Had A

Full Complement Of Passengers,  Who,  As Far As Carley Could See,  Were People

Not Of Her Station In Life. The Glare From The Many Windows,  And The Rather

Crass Interest Of Several Men,  Drove Her Back To Her Own Section. There She

Discovered That Some One Had Drawn Up Her Window Shades. Carley Promptly

Pulled Them Down And Settled Herself Comfortably. Then She Heard A Woman

Speak,  Not Particularly Low: "I Thought People Traveled West To See The

Country." And A Man Replied,  Rather Dryly. "Wal,  Not Always." His Companion

Went On: "If That Girl Was Mine I'd Let Down Her Skirt." The Man Laughed

And Replied: "Martha,  You're Shore Behind The Times. Look At The Pictures

In The Magazines."

 

Such Remarks Amused Carley,  And Later She Took Advantage Of An Opportunity

To Notice Her Neighbors. They Appeared A Rather Quaint Old Couple,

Reminding Her Of The Natives Of Country Towns In The Adirondacks. She Was

Not Amused,  However,  When Another Of Her Woman Neighbors,  Speaking Low,

Referred To Her As A "Lunger." Carley Appreciated The Fact That She Was

Pale,  But She Assured Herself That There Ended Any Possible Resemblance She

Might Have To A Consumptive. And She Was Somewhat Pleased To Hear This

Woman's Male Companion Forcibly Voice Her Own Convictions. In Fact,  He Was

Nothing If Not Admiring.

 

Kansas Was Interminably Long To Carley,  And She Went To Sleep Before Riding

Out Of It. Next Morning She Found Herself Looking Out At The Rough Gray And

Black Land Of New Mexico. She Searched The Horizon For Mountains,  But There

Did Not Appear To Be Any. She Received A Vague,  Slow-Dawning Impression

That Was Hard To Define. She Did Not Like The Country,  Though That Was Not

The Impression Which Eluded Her. Bare Gray Flats,  Low Scrub-Fringed Hills,

Bleak Cliffs,  Jumble After Jumble Of Rocks,  And Occasionally A Long Vista

Down A Valley,  Somehow Compelling--These Passed Before Her Gaze Until She

Tired Of Them. Where Was The West Glenn Had Written About? One Thing Seemed

Sure,  And It Was That Every Mile Of This Crude Country Brought Her Nearer

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To Him. This Recurring Thought Gave Carley All The Pleasure She Had Felt So

Far In This Endless Ride. It Struck Her That England Or France Could Be

Dropped Down Into New Mexico And Scarcely Noticed.

 

By And By The Sun Grew Hot,  The Train Wound Slowly And Creakingly Upgrade,

The Car Became Full Of Dust,  All Of Which Was Disagreeable To Carley. She

Dozed On Her Pillow For Hours,  Until She Was Stirred By A Passenger Crying

Out,  Delightedly: "Look! Indians!"

 

Carley Looked,  Not Without Interest. As A Child She Had Read About Indians,

And Memory Returned Images Both Colorful And Romantic. From The Car Window

She Espied Dusty Flat Barrens,  Low Squat Mud Houses,  And Queer-Looking

Little People,  Children Naked Or Extremely Ragged And Dirty,  Women In Loose

Garments With Flares Of Red,  And Men In White Man's Garb,  Slovenly And

Motley. All These Strange Individuals Stared Apathetically As The Train

Slowly Passed.

 

"Indians," Muttered Carley,  Incredulously. "Well,  If They Are The Noble Red

People,  My Illusions Are Dispelled." She Did Not Look Out Of The Window

Again,  Not Even When The Brakeman Called Out The Remarkable Name Of

Albuquerque.

 

Next Day Carley's Languid Attention Quickened To The Name Of Arizona,  And

To The Frowning Red Walls Of Rock,  And To The Vast Rolling Stretches Of

Cedar-Dotted Land. Nevertheless,  It Affronted Her. This Was No Country For

People To Live In,  And So Far As She Could See It Was Indeed Uninhabited.

Her Sensations Were Not,  However,  Limited To Sight. She Became Aware Of

Unfamiliar Disturbing Little Shocks Or Vibrations In Her Ear Drums,  And

After That A Disagreeable Bleeding Of The Nose. The Porter Told Her This

Was Owing To The Altitude. Thus,  One Thing And Another Kept Carley Most Of

The Time Away From The Window,  So That She Really Saw Very Little Of The

Country. From What She Had Seen She Drew The Conviction That She Had Not

Missed Much. At Sunset She Deliberately Gazed Out To Discover What An

Arizona Sunset Was Like Just A Pale Yellow Flare! She Had Seen Better Than

That Above The Palisades. Not Until Reaching Winslow Did She Realize How

Near She Was To Her Journey's End And That She Would Arrive At Flagstaff

After Dark. She Grew Conscious Of Nervousness. Suppose Flagstaff Were Like

These Other Queer Little Towns!

 

Not Only Once,  But Several Times Before The Train Slowed Down For Her

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Destination Did Carley Wish She Had Sent Glenn Word To Meet Her. And When,

Presently,  She Found Herself Standing Out In The Dark,  Cold,  Windy Night

Before A Dim-Lit Railroad Station She More Than Regretted Her Decision To

Surprise Glenn. But That Was Too Late And She Must Make The Best Of Her

Poor Judgment.

 

Men Were Passing To And Fro On The Platform,  Some Of Whom Appeared To Be

Very Dark Of Skin And Eye,  And Were Probably Mexicans. At Length An

Expressman Approached Carley,  Soliciting Patronage. He Took Her Bags And,

Depositing Them In A Wagon,  He Pointed Up The Wide Street: "One Block Up

An' Turn. Hotel Wetherford." Then He Drove Off. Carley Followed,  Carrying

Her Small Satchel. A Cold Wind,  Driving The Dust,  Stung Her Face As She

Crossed The Street To A High Sidewalk That Extended Along The Block. There

Were Lights In The Stores And On The Corners,  Yet She Seemed Impressed By A

Dark,  Cold,  Windy Bigness. Many People,  Mostly Men,  Were Passing Up And

Down,  And There Were Motor Cars Everywhere. No One Paid Any Attention To

Her. Gaining The Corner Of The Block,  She Turned,  And Was Relieved To See

The Hotel Sign. As She Entered The Lobby A Clicking Of Pool Balls And The

Discordant Rasp Of A Phonograph Assailed Her Ears. The Expressman Set Down

Her Bags And Left Carley Standing There. The Clerk Or Proprietor Was

Talking From Behind His Desk To Several Men,  And There Were Loungers In The

Lobby. The Air Was Thick With Tobacco Smoke. No One Paid Any Attention To

Carley Until At Length She Stepped Up To The Desk And Interrupted The

Conversation There.

 

"Is This A Hotel?" She Queried,  Brusquely.

 

The Shirt-Sleeved Individual Leisurely Turned And Replied,  "Yes,  Ma'am."

 

And Carley Said: "No One Would Recognize It By The Courtesy Shown. I Have

Been Standing Here Waiting To Register."

 

With The Same Leisurely Case And A Cool,  Laconic Stare The Clerk Turned The

Book Toward Her. "Reckon People Round Here Ask For What They Want."

 

Carley Made No Further Comment. She Assuredly Recognized That What She Had

Been Accustomed To Could Not Be Expected Out Here. What She Most Wished To

Do At The Moment Was To Get Close To The Big Open Grate Where A Cheery Red-

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And-Gold Fire Cracked. It Was Necessary,  However,  To Follow The Clerk. He

Assigned Her To A Small Drab Room Which Contained A Bed,  A Bureau,  And A

Stationary Washstand With One Spigot. There Was Also A Chair. While Carley

Removed Her Coat And Hat The Clerk Went Downstairs For The Rest Of Her

Luggage. Upon His Return Carley Learned That A Stage Left The Hotel For Oak

Creek Canyon At Nine O'clock Next Morning. And This Cheered Her So Much

That She Faced The Strange Sense Of Loneliness And Discomfort With

Something Of Fortitude. There Was No Heat In The Room,  And No Hot Water.

When Carley Squeezed The Spigot Handle There Burst Forth A Torrent Of Water

That Spouted Up Out Of The Washbasin To Deluge Her. It Was Colder Than Any

Ice Water She Had Ever Felt. It Was Piercingly Cold. Hard Upon The Surprise

And Shock Carley Suffered A Flash Of Temper. But Then The Humor Of It

Struck Her And She Had To Laugh.

 

"Serves You Right--You Spoiled Doll Of Luxury!" She Mocked. "This Is Out

West. Shiver And Wait On Yourself!"

 

Never Before Had She Undressed So Swiftly Nor Felt Grateful For Thick

Woollen Blankets On A Hard Bed. Gradually She Grew Warm. The Blackness,

Too,  Seemed Rather Comforting.

 

"I'm Only Twenty Miles From Glenn," She Whispered. "How Strange! I Wonder

Will He Be Glad." She Felt A Sweet,  Glowing Assurance Of That. Sleep Did

Not Come Readily. Excitement Had Laid Hold Of Her Nerves,  And For A Long

Time She Lay Awake. After A While The Chug Of Motor Cars,  The Click Of Pool

Balls,  The Murmur Of Low Voices All Ceased. Then She Heard A Sound Of Wind

Outside,  An Intermittent,  Low Moaning,  New To Her Ears,  And Somehow

Pleasant. Another Sound Greeted Her--The Musical Clanging Of A Clock That

Struck The Quarters Of The Hour. Some Time Late Sleep Claimed Her.

 

Upon Awakening She Found She Had Overslept,  Necessitating Haste Upon Her

Part. As To That,  The Temperature Of The Room Did Not Admit Of Leisurely

Dressing. She Had No Adequate Name For The Feeling Of The Water. And Her

Fingers Grew So Numb That She Made What She Considered A Disgraceful Matter

Of Her Attire.

 

Downstairs In The Lobby Another Cheerful Red Fire Burned In The Grate. How

Perfectly Satisfying Was An Open Fireplace! She Thrust Her Numb Hands

Almost Into The Blaze,  And Simply Shook With The Tingling Pain That Slowly

Warmed Out Of Them. The Lobby Was Deserted. A Sign Directed Her To A Dining

Room In The Basement,  Where Of The Ham And Eggs And Strong Coffee She

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